Unnatural Selection: A Hellboy Novel

PART ONE

Old Memories

Temple of the Sun, Heliopolis, Egypt—1976

They had been digging for three days, and still the famed feather eluded them.

Three days underground, away from the sun and the heat of day, away from the darkness and the cool of night, timeless and airless and stuffy with the enclosed scents of history. They followed footprints left in the sand of subterranean passages millennia ago and compared their own feet for size. They drew their fingertips along the walls and sniffed the dust in wonder. Somewhere in each intake of breath was the skin of long-dead men and, perhaps, the sheddings of things other than men. Each time they opened their eyes after a short sleep, they were filled with awe. And every time they closed their eyes, their dreams were of greatness.

If only they could find the feather, these dreams would come true.

Richard Blake sat and consulted the ancient Book of Ways given to him by his father. Its author, Zahid de Lainree—doubtless a pseudonym designed merely to confuse—had been a man of mystery and obfuscation, and Richard had become adept at casting brief spells of course to wend his way through the man’s writings and diagrams. If the ancient text said left, it sometimes meant right; if it said up, it could mean down. And occasionally, instruction to search in this world could hint at delving into another. This chapter, this very page, had already brought them to the secret entrance of the true Temple of the Sun, a place undiscovered by archaeologists and all manner of explorers who had torn this land apart.

The brothers knew that the Book was filled with arcane secrets, but that did not dilute their frustration.

Gal, Richard said, "I’m reading this right, I know I am. I don’t understand!"

Richard’s twin brother, Galileo Blake—one wronged man named after another—was sitting several feet along the passage, casting his flashlight around him. The splash of light illuminated tool marks on the tunnel walls and ceilings, cracks in the bedrock, little else. These damn tunnels are here for a purpose, Gal said. "Nobody builds tunnels from nowhere to nowhere. There’s no reason for it."

No reason … Richard said. "Perhaps that’s it! Gal, maybe we’ve spent three days looking for a reason. We’ve been walking through mazes looking for the middle, but maybe there is no middle!"

Gal shone the flashlight directly into his brother’s face and smiled when Richard cringed back. Sometimes, Rich, you’re full of shit.

Yeah, but magic shit. Richard smiled and closed the book so he could think. After a few moments, he cast another spell of course, then opened the book again. He held the pen-light between his teeth, flicked to the chapter he had been staring at for three days, and began to read between the lines.

An hour later, they found the feather.

I told you! Richard said. "I told you!"

Yeah, yeah, nobody likes a smart-ass.

But just look at it …

They had followed the lines scratched into the walls as described, choosing direction from the hidden messages of Zahid de Lainree’s text, and it had taken them only another hour to find the right place. It was where the carved lines stopped. The creature that had made those lines so many years ago—its wings tucked in but still too wide for this narrow passage—must once have stood exactly where they stood now.

A sudden breath of warm air haunted the passage, a ghost memory from another world.

Ten minutes of digging unearthed the feather, as long as a man’s forearm, a stunning royal purple flecked gold at its tip. Many centuries of burial had done nothing to dull its vibrancy or beauty.

And now Gal held it out before him, and they both stared. They could do little else. Here was evidence, here was proof, here was the first of many testaments to mythology they needed to find over the coming years. Their father would be waiting, lurking in exile and still mourning their murdered mother. Here, at last, in this feather from a creature that most would insist had never existed, the potential for revenge had found form.

You send it, Richard said.

Me? Gal’s usually gruff voice was tinged with a hint of trepidation. Even fear.

Yeah, I’ve been reading the book.

That’s because you’re good at casting the spell of course. You can divine hidden meanings. I just see ink on a page; you see whole worlds.

Richard sighed. "I make out the theory of the Memory in Lainree’s writing. You can actually touch it. You know you’ve always been better than me."

Gal sighed. Well …

Neither of them could look away from the feather.

Richard took it from his brother’s hands. Father will be so pleased, he whispered.

Did you ever doubt him?

Did you?

Gal smiled, still gazing at the plume. Never. But I think perhaps he doubted himself.

This will put an end to that. Richard offered the feather back to his brother. There was power in that gesture of sharing, and trust.

Yes. This is the beginning of everything. Gal placed it on the floor of the passage, and Richard stepped back to give his brother the room he needed.

Gal drew a rough shape in the sand, closed his eyes, and whispered a series of gruff, guttural words. Eyes still closed, he sought out the feather, lifted it, and placed it gently within the shape. Its spine was so hot to the touch that, at first, it felt ice-cold. Instantly the sand around Gal’s feet began to glow and skip, like a million tiny fleas striving to reach his outstretched hands. The glow expanded, remaining weak yet still bright enough to read by.

Then the heat truly arrived.

Hot, Richard whispered. The passage grew warmer, his vision began to swim, and within seconds he was gasping for air, lying down and staring sideways at his kneeling brother. "Hot!" Each breath scorched his throat, and he wondered how his clothes had not erupted into flame. Is this what it feels like to burn to death? he thought.

Gal muttered louder, felt the world grow dim around him, and as the phoenix feather flamed from this world and drifted gently through another, for a second he felt that other place. He sensed the Memory, the haunt of all mythical creatures, and he burst into an involuntary outpouring of grief and rage at the sadness radiating from there. It was a forgotten place whose very name emphasized the hopelessness of its existence. And it was dark, filled with drifting forms, many of them threatening and exuding menace, but only in the way that an old man will intimidate those younger than him with age, wisdom, and knowledge. They were fearful entities he saw, but ineffectual.

Ineffectual where they were now, at least.

The light faded, the heat withdrew, and Gal fell shivering to the floor of the passageway. If his hex of transmission had been right, the phoenix feather would be with his father even now. Given time, the light of revenge would begin to bleed into that darkened void.

As he withdrew from the Memory, he felt it shimmer with an echo of hope. His hope. And even through his tears, he smiled.

Baltimore, Maryland—1997

Abby Paris sat on the step of Edgar Allan Poe’s grave and waited for the werewolf. The moon would be three-quarters full tonight; her own blood told her that, her own hunger. Yet she was certain that the werewolf would be here, clothed in its human form, but already planning the feast of a few days’ time. Witnesses to the slayings said that the monster paid homage here after each killing. That made Abby uncomfortable, but, worried or not, she knew it was her job to try to talk it around.

That, or destroy it.

The afternoon was scorching. She sat beside Poe’s grave, wearing black trousers and a black T-shirt, and she guessed she looked similar to a lot of visitors this particular graveyard attracted. At least for once she wouldn’t stand out from the crowd. Traffic hustled by and stank up the air, but the iron fence seemed to have a calming effect on the noise, as if the somber atmosphere of the churchyard were thick enough to soothe it. Abby watched a big dump truck pull up at the traffic lights down the street and belch brown coughs of exhaust fumes into the air. She wished she could avoid breathing for an hour or two. Then she thought of some of those dead things she had seen on her last mission with Hellboy, and she drew in a thankful breath. Stinking air was better than no air at all.

This was her first time out on her own, and she was nervous. Tom Manning, the head of the Bureau of Paranormal Research and Defense, had been hesitant about sending her out for a solo job, especially as this was such a personal assignment for her. Send a monster to catch one! she had said perkily, but Tom had frowned, and she had seen the troubled mind ever present behind his gruff exterior. Hellboy, Liz Sherman, and Abe Sapien were all out of the country on separate missions, and the significance of this had not been lost on Abby. There was a lot of stuff going on in the world right now. Weird stuff. BPRD stuff. Tom hated sending his agents out on their own.

But she had insisted, and he had relented, and now here she was sitting on Poe’s grave waiting for a werewolf. She would recognize it when she saw it. She looked in the mirror every morning, after all.

Two young men entered the graveyard sporting identical black T-shirts, bald heads, and goatees. One was taller than the other, but other than that, they were peas in a Gothic pod. They even had the same look of reverence on their faces.

Cool, one of them said. At first Abby thought he was staring at her, but then she realized it was the stone edifice behind her.

She’s pretty hot, too, the other one said.

"Well, boys, it is a bloody hot day." Abby smiled as she saw the effect her voice had on the men. The shorter one even stepped back a couple of paces as her throaty, sultry words faded into the street noise. She laughed quietly, knew the sound reached them, and she remembered howling at the moon and how that made her throat sore in the morning. But how wonderful it felt every single time.

She stood, stretched, looked around. Can’t let my guard down! But there was no sign of the werewolf, and playing with these two would be fun.

The taller man was braver than his mate. So you’re hanging out with Edgar, too, huh?

Just somewhere cool to park my ass.

Yeah, too cool.

The small guy asked, Can you take our picture?

Abby smiled and nodded. Sure.

He stepped forward, probably totally unaware of the expression on his face: naked lust crossed with animal fear. He handed the camera to Abby. The taller man blinked at the length of her nails and the tattoos of claws along the lengths of her fingers. Self-parody, she wanted to say, but it would be lost on them.

The men skirted around Abby and positioned themselves on either side of Poe’s tombstone. They looked nervous, their smiles forced, and Abby shook her head and turned away.

Get yourselves natural, guys, she said. Tell a joke. Ogle my ass. Remember the last time you got drunk together. I’ll take your picture when you look like yourselves. She heard giggles behind her and took the opportunity to scan the street. Still no werewolf. Men and women, boys and girls, walking to and fro along the pavement. Abby sniffed. Smog, heat, sweat, but nothing like the wild musk she would recognize. Other than her own, of course. She could never shake that, however many baths or showers she took. She wondered whether the boys could smell her.

She spun around, ready to take their photo, and the werewolf was standing between them.

Smile! the man said. He was tall, pale, gaunt, yet his eyes were alive and strong, filled with exuberance.

He’s just like me, Abby thought, amazed. Except…he’s not at all. Because he’s tasted human flesh. She looked at the men in black and wondered what they tasted like.

I need to talk to you, she said. The man shrugged and sat down.

What about our—? the tall bald guy said.

Scram, Abby growled. They ran off without their camera. She reckoned they’d run a long way.

You’re just like me, he said, smiling. There was utter confidence in his voice that even Abby found disarming. The way he sat, easy and graceful. The way he smiled, loose and friendly. Everything spoke of a belief in his own invulnerability.

First mistake.

A little, she said. But I don’t kill people.

The man frowned. Then what do you eat?

Deer.

Holy shit! He feigned disgust, stuck fingers down his throat as if about to vomit. All that fur!

Some people are hairy.

I rip off their skins first. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. That’s usually after I’ve torn out their throats … usually. Sometimes I do it before. Fear adds to the flavor of that first bite, it really does. Something to do with the makeup of their blood.

I’m here to stop you … stop you killing. Abby hated the nervousness in her voice, but he had unsettled her.

You’re BPRD?

Abby nodded. She thought she hid her surprise quite well.

Why didn’t they send the big red guy?

He’s off fighting dragons.

The man leaned back, laughing so loud and hard that he startled a flock of birds from the church roof. He patted his knees, wiped his eyes, shook his head. She saw the animal movements in every gesture, and she could not help feeling attracted to him. His power. His grace. Both were richer than hers, more emphasized. Was that because he ate people? Tasted human flesh? She glanced out into the street at the people wandering back and forth, and she could not help her subconscious throwing up the word: cattle.

So they sent you to catch me, he said. Well, what are you waiting for?

I wanted to talk you out of it, not catch you. You know I’m like you—a werewolf—but I control it. I have help, yes, but you can have help, too, if you—

You want to lock me up in a cage for a few days every month, feed me deer and sheep and cattle. You expect me to go for that rather than what I have here? This spread of tastes? He waved his hand vaguely toward the street, but his eyes never left hers.

Well … That doubt and hesitancy again, and she was surprised that it was quickly making her hate this man. And she didn’t even know his name.

Think again, he said. You have no idea what it’s like. And if you did, you’d know why I have to do this.

She was ready. Maybe it was the training the Bureau had given her, or the way Abe Sapien had taught her to read someone’s intention in his eyes, but even as the man came at her, she was twisting to the side, bringing her gun up out of its belt holster, and letting off a shot at his shadow.

He screamed as he landed across her legs. The bullet had taken him in the ankle, and his eyes went wide as he felt the silver bleeding into his system. You bitch! he hissed.

Abby closed her eyes at the stink of silver, felt her stomach heaving. When she looked again, he was gone, bounding over the perimeter fence almost before she could blink. He’s fast! she thought. Lord help me, he’s fast even in his unchanged state. She jumped up, readying herself for a long chase, but then she heard the squeal of brakes and the horrible impact of metal on flesh.

Perhaps she would be lucky.

Past Poe’s grave, out onto the pavement, she saw the SUV slewed across the street. In front of it, writhing on the concrete road, the man squirmed in a spreading pool of his own blood.

Oh, God … the driver said as he got out of the vehicle. He stepped toward the wounded man, paused, and started backing away. "Oh, God!"

Abby walked out into the road and approached the werewolf. He was screeching, grasping at the side of his head where it had been caved in by the SUV’s grille. Green-gray matter leaked out, spattering to the road and forming islands in the spreading blood. His eyes were red. His nose was bloody, but not from the impact. He was bleeding because of the change.

A circle of people was forming, all of them standing well back from this screaming thing thrashing about on the road. I wonder if they’d still stand back if he was only a man, Abby thought, and the answers she came up with scared her. All that blood … all that gore … She thought of the deer they gave her at the BPRD, delicate, shy creatures that barely had the sense to run when she went to tear out their throats. Their blood, pumping into her mouth. Their flesh, raw and rich and yet tasting so wrong.

She swayed on her feet, looked up at the sun, and went down on her knees.

What’s happened to his face? someone said, sick fascination in his voice. What’s it done to his legs?

Abby grabbed the .45 tightly in her right hand and opened her eyes.

The werewolf was up on his arms and legs. He was still screeching, and fluid and chunks of gore dripped from his ruined head. His tongue lolled from his mouth, longer than it should have been. His fingers stretched, and nails dug into the road surface. Clothing ripped, and his back seemed to expand, as if he had taken in the final, largest breath of his life. But Abby knew that was not the case.

Down! she said, aiming the pistol. The crowd gasped, but the werewolf uttered something that could have been a laugh. Blood slopped from his mouth as teeth gashed gums and lips.

You think so? he growled. Abby heard the words, but the crowd stepped back, as if they had just heard the first threatening snarl of a wild animal.

I know so, she said, and jumped at him.

He knew what she was, and somehow he knew whom she worked for, but he was unprepared for her attack. Perhaps his wounds were just too much. She kicked out at his face and sent him sprawling, landed astride his chest, pressed the pistol muzzle into his right eye. He growled, then howled in anticipation of the silver bullet entering his brain.

I will do it, Abby said, "I will!"

What do you want?

"Are you from Blake? Did he send you? Did he make you?"

Huh? The werewolf, fatal injuries bringing on his change, stopped squirming and ceased screeching. He lay still beneath her, left eye wide in surprise. And in that red eye, a glimmer of realization.

That was enough for Abby. She sat back, closed her eyes, and pulled the trigger.

The crowd scattered. The creature beneath her bucked once and then lay still. Abby walked away.

Rio de Janeiro, Brazil—1997

That is one big worm. Hellboy had always wanted to take a trip to Rio, but not under these circumstances.

Weird how people get used to things, Amelia Francis said. She was a lecturer in Mythology in History at the local university and a BPRD adviser in South America. She had met Hellboy at the airport less than two hours ago. Now they were standing beside the road, staring up at the dragon that perched on the outstretched left arm of Christ the Redeemer. Ask most people now, and they’ll shake their heads and smile and say it’s a joke.

Even though that thing turned half of Copacabana beach into a sheet of glass?

People can’t believe, so they choose not to.

Huh. Hellboy rolled his unlit cigarette across his lips. He’d already searched through his jacket pockets for some matches and drawn a blank. He wished Liz were there with him. What about them? He pointed up the mountain at the colorful specks climbing its slopes. From here they looked like insects.

Amelia sighed. They’re not the first. The police are doing their best to deter the journalists, sensation seekers, and souvenir hunters, but it’s a big place. They can’t seal it off totally.

Huh, Hellboy said again. He stared up at the dragon. Souvenirs?

From … from what I know about dragons, it’s … She trailed off, staring up past Hellboy. "That’s a dragon!"

Sure looks like it. He glanced at the woman, looked away, back again. She’d hardly raised an eyebrow when he arrived at the airport; not the usual response he engendered. His lobster-red skin, horn stumps, and waving tail usually attracted some sort of comment, even from people he’d met before. Amelia had known of him—she had imparted that much, at least—but she’d already seen something more amazing that day.

He had to admit, it was quite a sight.

So … souvenirs? he repeated.

You don’t know about dragons? she asked.

They’re lizards. They breathe fire. They’re not nice.

Actually, they were harmless once, the lecturer said. "Burned crops when people pissed them off, that was about their limit. Then Christianity turned them into demons, and they became demons, and they were hunted to extinction. At least, that’s how the story goes. The story also says that if you eat a dragon’s heart, you’ll understand the language of birds."

Useful, Hellboy said. But that thing up there doesn’t look extinct to me.

Amelia paled, leaned against the timber railing for support. Hellboy smiled and touched her shoulder gently with his big stonelike hand. Reality kept hitting her, surprising her with what she was actually seeing up there.

What about the military? he asked.

Amelia shrugged. They’ve approached me, too. And … maybe it’s my fault they’re not doing anything. I told them that the appearance of a dragon was once thought to be an omen of good fortune.

And is it?

Amelia shrugged again. They seem to think so. They left after I said that, and I haven’t seen them since.

Well, we can’t just leave it there. I have to go up. See what that thing wants. Can’t let it fly around and burn the place.

How will you stop it?

I’ll find a way, it’s what I do. Will you drive me to the station?

Oh, yes, you bet!

They heard a sudden screech, then a loud roar that spread out over the city. Hellboy looked up in time to see the dragon dip its head and sweep it across the rim of the plateau. Several waving shapes burst into flames and tumbled down the cliffs, their screams too far away to hear.

Omen of good luck, he said. You sure, Amelia?

Oh, those poor people … She looked up into Hellboy’s eyes, and for the first time he recognized her fear.

As Amelia drove her Jeep toward the mountain train station, Hellboy leaned out the window and stared up. The dragon was still there, perched quite comfortably on Christ’s outstretched arm, surveying the view as if it owned the place. Occasionally it stretched its wings, stood up, and belched fire at the sky. Hellboy was not sure why until he saw the press helicopters hovering nearby.

So much for covert. He hated being the center of attention.

They followed the road around the slope of the mountain, and for a while a bulk of rock obscured the view. Hellboy sat back in his seat and chewed softly on the unlit cigarette. He wished—not for the first time—that he’d listened to Professor Bruttenholm when he had told Hellboy to spend more time learning. Maybe then he would know more about dragons, where they came from, what they wanted, what species this one was … and most important, how he could stop it. He touched the big gun on his belt and smiled. Bad shot though he was, he couldn’t miss this sucker.

Are you really from hell? Amelia asked.

Hellboy scowled. What’s your area of expertise again?

Mythology.

I’m no myth. Drive.

Amelia was silent for the next few minutes, but when they finally reached the station she stopped the Jeep and turned to Hellboy, her face stern. "I think it may be Draconis albionensis, a British dragon usually known as the Firedrake. Big. Strong. Weird that it’s here, as most dragons were commonly sighted in Europe, North Africa, China, and Asia. I’m not aware of any dragon legends from North or South America. Very strange."

How do I kill it?

Put on a suit of armor, and pick up a sword. They’re not immortal, you know.

Hellboy frowned for a moment, then smiled at her. She was not mocking him. Far from it; she was trying to help. She shivered even in this heat, and he patted her leg softly. Hey, I’m sorry, he said. I didn’t mean to be gruff. That’s just me, and … well, I don’t really like talking about me.

I’ve always known about you, but in the flesh you’re amazing.

Hmph. I wish all the girls thought that way. Hellboy nodded his thanks and opened his door.

Hellboy? He looked back at Amelia. That’s a dragon, she said. And that’s impossible. A dragon … it’s myth. A story. They don’t really exist.

At that moment the dragon roared and let fly a breath of fire at a helicopter that had strayed too close. The aircraft veered away, paint blistered and rubber door seals smoking from the heat. The creature flapped its wings, stretched its neck, then settled back onto its roost.

I think he’d disagree with you, Amelia, Hellboy said. Hey, do me a favor? Wait here for me. I don’t plan on being long.

She nodded. Be careful.

If I had a last name … ‘Careful’ would be my middle one.

On his way up the mountain in the deserted train, Hellboy called in to HQ. He asked to speak to Kate Corrigan, the BPRD’s adviser on the paranormal, but she was busy somewhere else. So was Tom Manning, the director now that Professor Bruttenholm was dead. "Is there anyone there I can talk to?" Hellboy shouted, but the guy on the other end said something about being busy, having lots going on, and the world going to hell.

Yeah, right, Hellboy muttered. He clicked off his satellite phone and tried to enjoy the trip.

The train